I Miss You

I miss your laugh.

I miss your mad refrigerator-cleaning skills.

I miss your funky sense of humor.

I miss your sixth sense.

I miss your hugs.

I miss you checking in on me twenty times a night.

I miss our chocolate pig-outs.

I miss those free oil changes.

I. Miss. You.

Love you, Dad. It's been 11 years too long.

The E-Mail I Should Have Sent

Dear Homeowner Serfs,
This is your HOA Empress speaking. According to our By-Laws, I'm supposed to allow you pitiful nothings an annual meeting where you get to vote in new figurehead board members and approve a budget.

Yeah. Whatever. A budget. SNORT! The budget may say that we're using your money to pay for landscaping and pool maintenance. But actually? I'll be parking a Chevy Corvette in my garage and putting a down payment on my vacation home in Bonaire.

The only problem is that I need a quorum of homeowners to vote on this nonsense and you idiots? Aren't giving me said quorum. That little slip of paper? That you found in your mailbox last week? That says "Aw, shucks! I can't make it to the meeting! Just let Empress Heather vote on my behalf because she's just swell!" You must sign your name to it (or an X, you uneducated buffoons) and hand it over and don't even bother coming to the meeting. I'll approve the Bonaire/Corvette budget and vote my three best friends in the director positions. Even though said friends don't live here. But I don't care. Because I'm the HOA Empress.

So, just stay at home, eat your gruel, and live in fear. After all, isn't that how dictatorships work?

Sincerely,
Her Imperial Highness Heather

Dialog, Part 20

Miss-Miss: Mama, my feet are tired!

Me: They are? Well, my feet are tired, too!

Miss-Miss: And my legs are tired!

Me: Really? Well, my hands are tired!

Bubba: My head is tired!

Me: My eyeballs are tired!

J-man: Eye-baw! Eye-baw!

Miss-Miss: My fingers are tired!

Bubba: My fingers tired, too!

Me: Mumbling. Oh yeah? Well, my vagina is tired!

My Apologies

Dear Readers,
I hate these posts. You know the ones. I'm too busy! I don't have time to post bupkis! This blogging shit is too hard! Waaaaaahhhh!

But this post is not that. I respect all of you too much just to post whatever. Filler. Junk. Because right now, my brain is so full of grocery lists, to do lists, TiVo to-be-recorded lists, and hit lists, that I couldn't post my way out of a wet paper bag. So, rather than just post crap to post for the sake of posting (you follow?), I'm going to let all of us off the hook. I'm still here, just not as much as usual. And when I have something to post, something that makes me smile, then I'll be in your reader. And in your face. I just didn't want you to think I was on a five-day chocolate bender.

It's more like month-long.

Thanks for understanding.

Love, Me

Shame

I'm horrified to admit that at the tender age of 13, I actually watched this show. I'm sorry for diluting the gene pool with my obvious tastelessness.

The Little Things

They aren't maracas. They're flowers.


They aren't Tinkerbell's shoes. They are precious treasures.


It's not a flashlight. It's special seasoning for French fry/brownie/corn/pineapple soup.


Thank goodness for a little princess with a big imagination.

It's Up To Me To Stay Drug Free

I've mentioned a couple of times on this blog that I'm a Libertarian. In a nutshell, Libertarians are for a smaller federal government, less taxes, and more personal freedoms. Whatever your personal political beliefs, there are typically two things about Libertarians that scare most people off from the party. They are:

1) Libertarians are just peachy about the legalization of all currently illicit/illegal drugs.
2) Libertarians are honky-dory with the legalization of prostitution.

Now, I'm not posting this to start a political bru-ha-ha on the day of the inauguration of our 44th president. I'm not posting this to start a You wanna turn my baby into a drug addict/sex fiend! argument. Nope. I'm posting this to show you this e-mail I received last week:

Hello,

Recently I visited your website http://coalminersgd.blogspot.com; while visiting your site I noticed that you link to http://www.reason.com at this address: http://coalminersgd.blogspot.com/. As we are closely related to them, I would love to exchange links with your website, currently there are about 5,000 - 7,000 people per day that goto my site and search for information, Therefore I would to link to an excellent site like yours.

I have taken the liberty of adding your site to my home page: http://www.rollitup.org to determine if it is of any benefit to you, if you have a stats program you can check it and let me know. By looking at my stats, it looks like today I have sent you 38 visitors but it may change by the time you receive this email.

Some website owners do not like when other sites link to them so I thought I might ask first. I think the information on your website could be useful to my visitors; and maybe you could receive some extra relevant traffic if you want. Please get back to me when you have a chance to let me know if its ok to link to your website like this.

Have a good week,

Mark Thompson

Yup. All you other bloggers? Getting offers of free schwag to review for your site? Getting linked by other bloggers? Whatev. I'm now linked from a forum that allows you to talk to other marijuana users on how to set up a grow room for your ganja, how to get your Mary Jane plants healthy, how to harvest and cure your herbs, and even a place to post pictures of your, ah-hem, weed.

So, here is my formal response:

Dear Mark,
I really appreciate that you visited my humble corner of the PRB and that you found my blog amusing enough to link to from your site. But, even though I'm a Libertarian, I don't exclusively write about Libertarian ideals or politics in general. Some other things you should know about me:

- I've taken one puff off of one cigarette. Ever. I brushed my teeth for five solid hours after that.
- I've smoked 10 cigars in my lifetime and, ironically, did not feel the need to brush my teeth after each one. The one Cuban cigar did make me nauseous.
- I've been drunk approximately six times in my lifetime, all after the age of 21. So, even my drunks have been legal.
- I've never smoked marijuana. I inhaled enough second-hand marijuana smoke at a Jimmy Buffett concert nine years ago that I'm sure about 1/16th of my brain was affected. But personally lighting up a joint? No.
- I've never done any of the following: crystal meth, cocaine, LSD, PCP, crack, mushrooms (unless you count the portabello 'shrooms in my chicken concoction I ate the other night), ecstasy, etc.
- I did try GHB during a really idiotic period in my life in which I believed an asshole-friend of mine who claimed it would help me during my marathon training. I no longer participate in the use of GHB because I would like to be awake for my life. Oh, and alive.

Now, having illustrated to you that I am very far off the beaten path from your audience, I hope you continue to find entertainment here in my little corner. And thanks for the link. I'm pretty sure your audience will stop by and promptly run away screaming when all they find is a drug-free mommy blogger who free-bases Godiva chocolate.

Sincerely,
Heather

Now, if I could just get the Moonlite Bunny Ranch to link to me, my life would be complete.

Why Superglue is On My Finger

OR

Why I Haven't Blogged in Five Days

The Ty-man has been working crazy-stupid hours for the last two weeks. So crazy-stupid that I've been muttering to myself Um, yeah, this whole almost-single-motherhood thing? SUCKS ASS! and I'm not even an almost-single mother! And these crazy-stupid work hours? Are pretty much going to continue well into March and all the while I'm thinking Dear Baby Jesus? Could you come down for a play date with my kids? And distract them? While I hit the coconut rum in the garage? Thanks so very much.

And then? I found out about TequilaCon, ConFab, TapsCon, and BlogHer and I'm all FRACK! Not enough money for all of them! Which one to choose? Where do I go? GAH!

And then I watched the Battlestar Galactica season premier and I was like THAT'S the 12th cylon? Seriously? And "frak" doesn't have a "c" in it? You mean I've misspelled an imaginary sci-fi cuss word for all these months? FRAK FRAK FRAKKING FRAK!!!

And then I realized I had EVP sessions that I needed to listen to from a December investigation and when I finally listened to them I shouted Listen!! Do you smell something? because I actually found an honest-to-God unexplainable human voice on an audio recording after a whole year of listening to EVP sessions to no avail!*

But then I remembered that I had the minutes to type out from the HOA Board meeting from Hell and figured Heather made a motion that this meeting blew chunks, Jodi seconded, motion passed (5-0) pretty much covered the whole bloody thing.

And then I connected with a friend on Crackbook who is himself a Crackbook friend with an ex-friend of mine and I was all SERIOUSLY?!? Jackass didn't go to Hell like I told him to? and I childishly stomped my foot a few times and huffed about the kitchen for the rest of the afternoon.

And then my youngest and oldest children both decided, simultaneously, to go on sleep strikes that involve screaming bloody murder for hours on end (youngest) and emptying the contents of the dresser drawers onto the bed (oldest) and I screamed TIME OUT! For ten hours! No more toys for you! No more sanity for me! Bubba is now my favorite!!

And of course I followed all this up by simultaneously reading four books about (1) Fermat's last theorem, (2) a murder mystery involving wolves, (3) king crab fishing, and (4) a middle-aged artist who has an unhealthy attraction to a 16-year-old girl. And I suddenly found myself mumbling King Crab³ plus Tanner Crab³ does not equal Blue Crab³, but wolves can certainly mangle statutory rapists.

And lastly, my eczema has flared up so badly that my fingers are cracked and since band-aids aren't made to stay on the base of your left ring finger without extreme discomfort, I was all Whatever. Superglue was used on the wounded soldiers in Vietnam! Let's do it!

So, how have you been?

*Yeah, I know. Bad run-on sentence. My 8th grade English teacher is spinning in her grave. Or in her living room. Not sure which.

Crackbook

In the beginning, there was the Commodore 64. It gaveth The Adolescent CMG the ability to programeth in BASIC and to becometh a geek. This was found to be good.

The advent of DOS helped The CMG to spreadeth her wings. Commands such as DIR, FORMAT, CLS, and MKDIR filled her days with wonder and delight. The CMG was decidedly content.

BASIC, Fortran, and Pascal mark'd her lonely college days with programming and the commanding of computers. Better than commanding man. Almost. The CMG smiled and these languages were found to be excellent.

With the dawn of the Internet came the ability for The CMG to shopeth for books, gargoyles, and quilt racks, the brick-a-brack so desperately needed by all upwardly-mobile 20-somethings of the 1990s. And this? Was deemed spectacular.

And now came the blog, a place for The CMG to ranteth and raveth and air her insanity publicly. And She was ecstatic.

Within a year came Twitter. The CMG tweeteth'd and twateth'd and found Herself poorer in writing material by 1,016 Twitter updates. Suddenly, The CMG was disillusioned and yet, She soldiered on.

The CMG tried MySpace and found it to be infantile, high-school, and generally annoying as Hell. And She was displeased.

This brings us, dear children, to the Facebook, the application from Hell, spawned by demons and dredged from the fires of Damnation to take away The CMG's sanity, time, and ability to function beyond moronic, two-line, status updates. The CMG realized her life was now a chaotic jumble because Facebook brought together friends from high school, college, old jobs, and blogging. Without the ability to keepeth her multiple personalities separate, The CMG twitcheth'd the muscle above her right eye, frowned, and deemed the Facebook as an abomination that must be destroyed.



That is why, dear readers, if any of you have Facebook accounts, you should brace yourselves. I may have to hack into the Facebook, Inc. servers and annihilate them from the inside out. I apologize for any grief this may cause you, but it must be done, for I have spoken and it must be so. I do this for the sake of mankind, the Universe, and my sanity. Which is far more important than the world knowing "It is currently 41F outside. Am going to go eat some ice cream. That's how I roll."

You're welcome.

Rocket Girl

October Sky. It's one of my favorite movies. West Virginia. Coal-mining town. And a boy who makes good on his promise of becoming a rocket scientist. It's one of those movies that I watch to remember who I am and who I thought I was going to be.

You see, I was determined to become West Virginia's second astronaut (just in case you're curious - here's our first). I was going to get a Ph.D. in physics and go the route of many academics who have become members of the astronaut corps.

But then, I fell in love with Ty-man and realized my love for him was more than my love for a job in space. Before Ty, I was on track. I was working on a B.S. in physics (actually did manage to finish that), had spent 10 weeks doing undergraduate research in the field of plasma physics, and had an offer for grad school. But, I chose the Ty-man over grad school. I always figured OK, I'm married. Cool. In a couple of years I'll ditch the job for grad school. I can still do this. I can still make it. But then I felt the pull of a $40K salary and that eclipsed all plans of school. A few years later, when grad school crossed my mind again, the uterine time-bomb was ticking and demanding that it do the job it was paid to do.

And now? Three kids later? Even if I had a Nobel physics prize in my sweaty little palms, I think NASA would snort it's way to hyperventilation if presented with my resume. And honestly? NASA has become such a screwed up organization that I don't know if I want my ass strapped to one of their rockets, getting stuck on the ISS while they attempt to design a new crew vehicle with a pittance for a budget. All while the US government and Putin enter a decade-long pissing contest, keeping our astronauts out of the Soyuz capsules. The space program is such a cluster fuck right now.

But I miss it. I miss the vision. The hope. The dreaming. I sit and look up at whatever stars are visible from my brightly-lit cul-de-sac and I wonder if I could have made it, if I would have had the fortitude to set aside a family for the chance to see Earth from the windshield of a shuttle. Or if I could have done the job of an astronaut, knowing this dream job could kill me at any time and leave my loved ones alone.

I don't know. Anytime I watch a shuttle launch or get anywhere near Kennedy Space Center, I feel a happiness in me, like I'm home. But I also am left feeling empty with a wonder of what could have been.

Could I truly have been a Rocket Girl? And is it truly enough for me to be just Heather?

Snatch

Oh, yeah. You read that title right. But, you see, it's actually a double-entendre. One of my favorite bloggers, Functionally ReTodded, wrote a post a few days ago about how difficult it is to have a penis, how things dribble and can shift and that having a penis is not a guarantee of getting laid. Waaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh! Poor pitiful male me!!! Pity me! Boo. Hoo.

What a baby.

So, I'm "snatch"ing my comments from his post and creating a post of my own. Here are the ten reasons why I believe it's more difficult to have a 'gina than it is to have a penis.

OK. Maybe it's more like 12 reasons. And maybe it's more like "Twelve Reasons Why It's More Difficult to Have a 'Gina/Uterus/Ovaries Than It Is to Have a Penis."

Heh-hem.

NOTE TO MY SENSITIVE READERS: Yeah. I'm all "boobs-to-the-wall" on this post. I tend to cut loose more in my comments on others' blogs. So, I figured I might as well go commando here and just let 'em hang out. You have been warned.

1) Todd stated it is difficult for us ladies to get our groceries (my favorite genitalia euphemism) caught in a zipper. But when you’re eight months pregnant? And attempting to trim up the, you know, pubes (It's all downhill from here, people.) before the big day so the OB doesn’t have to hack his way through the sprawling rainforest Wookie-bush? You have a pretty good chance of ending up in the ER with a nicked clam-bake. Speaking from experience.

2) Shifting underpants may cause men to suddenly have to pee? Poor sweeties. Try a nine-month-old human standing on your bladder! Yeah. And then there's my personal favorite, Oh wait, gotta sneeze! Ker-chew! Aaaaaaaaand, now I'll go change my granny-panties. Gotch there, hon!

3) Todd was going on and on about "pee, yadda, yadda, shake it off, blah, blah, mouse (?), dribble on the khakis or down the leg." Um, yeah. All I’ve got to say about this is that when girls pee? We pee ALL over ourselves. Like, you have to wipe your back AND front sides. And the insides of the legs. And before you even sit down, you have to get half-naked and wipe the previous 15 ladies' pee off the seat because they all do the "squat and dribble" maneuver. It's never a straight stream. And it's never a dry moment.

4) Oh, please. The next time I hear some man-child whine about standing at the board in math class with a boner? I will LOSE IT! It is a known fact amongst womankind that every fracking time you wear white shorts or pants as a teen girl, you are guaran-fracking-teed to start your period. That day. No matter if you just had your period last week. Oh, yeah, big red stains on the crotch of your white capris is SUCH a popularity booster. That and cutting a big one (THAT ECHOED) while trying to hit a softball in sophomore gym class.

Repeat that last sentence to anyone? And I will cut you. Yeah, you.

5) When it comes to calming crying kids in the middle of the night and Daddy's Big Jim decides to take a peak at said kid? Us gals have the whole crooked tank top and nipplage issue. I'm just sayin'.

6) Todd says there's no guarantee of sex if one has a penis but if you have a vagina? You've got it in the bag. Did you people not read #4?!? Farting and visible menstruation does not a come-hither-gal make.

7) OK, seriously. Todd was just going on and on and on about how he has to concentrate on yaw, pitch, trajectory, WHATEVER, while he's peeing in the middle of the night. Think about trying to aim your flat ass for the toilet seat in the middle of the night. We chick-a-dees have to think about yaw, pitch, velocity, gravity and such. But if you miss? It's far less painful than my half-asleep ass trying to sit down on the john and hitting the floor instead. Broken tailbone? Anyone? Cussing that wakes up the entire house? Anyone?

8) Todd claims that no one complains if they are ever bumped in to by a rock hard vagina. I would never complain, but I would certainly call the CDC because that? Is a medical oddity right there.

9) According to Todd, his kids laugh and point at the Frank and Beans. Mine don’t laugh. But they do stare. At the previously mentioned, you know, overgrown lawn. That I don't have time to, you know, mow. And hiring a landscaping company would just be, you know, embarrassing.

10) And finally, Todd feels that a publicly masturbating man would be stopped, immediately, if caught. And that a woman? Would be invited to continue. Actually? I wouldn’t stop either one. Male or female. I would blush the deepest of reds and run, RUN! away, I tell you.

And here's where I add two more...

11) Guy is in a bad mood? People blame it on his team losing. Woman is in a bad mood? People blame it on her reproductive system. God, Heather! You're such a bitch today! Are you on the rag?!? No. Are you about to die from asphyxiation while I slowly choke you to death? I thought so.

12) Men go through male menopause? Meaning, their testosterone levels go down? They go out, buy Corvettes and cases of Just For Men, and marry women half their age. Women go through menopause? We're told it's like an illness that must be treated with hormones or supplements and then everything gets hot, then cold, then reeaaallly reeeaaaalllly hot, then cold, then CENTER OF THE SUN! and then you will just shrivel up, SHRIVEL I TELL YOU! and, oh, by the by, the hormones will make you feel better but will probably kill you with breast cancer so you get the hormones and the cancer and you have a double mastectomy so you still have the hormones but you have no boobs, your male-menopause husband is out flirting with girls in his sports car with his freshly dyed hair and you are at home with your 50-11 cats and your flat chest.*

How YOU doin'?

OK. I am now going to go and hide.

*Actually, the Ty-man will be out in his Corvette, with his Just For Men still fresh on his head, scoping out the toy stores for the latest Star Wars Extra-Special Most-Bestest Favoritest This-Time-the-Death-Star-Blows-Up-With-Screaming-Voice-Effects-Added action figures. While I? Will be at home with the cats and the Sean Connery and the Godiva. And the hormones. But still. It ain't right.

Out-Law

I never learn. I constantly chant to myself, Keep your mouth shut. Don't open your mouth. Don't say a word. It's better if you internalize and I don't know where this comes from. What part of my past affected my psyche and requires me to be a quiet door mat.

My mom's family was, and is, a train wreck in motion. I won't go into details but let's just say that for several years I did not speak to or see my maternal grandfather. My mother didn't attend her sister's funeral. It was much like a divorce, just without the judges, child support, or visitation rights. But with all the hurt and pain.

And when I married Ty-man and met both sides of his family, I knew I had found Heaven. Or, at the very least, the reality version of many 1950s TV sitcoms. These people all love, support, and encourage one another. Disagreements flare up from time to time, but are quickly squelched after said parties get the issues off their chests and exchange hugs.

It's... weird. And so fracking cool and refreshing after dealing with the extreme dysfunction of Mom's family. One thing I know for certain is that I never want to be the cause of The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet becoming The Osbournes.

And then I had to go yesterday and offer my two cents on a family e-mail conversation regarding Christmas and summertime gatherings. And I knew, as I typed, that even though I've been in this family for 13 years, that I'm not truly in this family. I don't share blood or experiences or ancestors. They've just loaned the Ty-man to me. And when I offered my piddling advice on the topic at hand and sighed with relief that I had done so in a non-confrontational, adult, chummy manner, I received a response that was...

well, confrontational. In-my-face. Smack-down-ish.

Do you follow?

But, of course, if you don't already know, my secret identity is TakeEverythingPersonally Woman! and it could definitely be that I read my computer screen seeing one expression on this particular in-law's face when, in fact, the face could have been genuinely smiling. I don't know.

I do know that, in the future, this "out"-law will be keeping her mouth shut. And smiling moronically. And nodding a lot.

And smoldering on the inside.

Trial By Fire

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

Remember? A few weeks ago? How I told you all about my Madame Secretary gig?

Well, our first meeting was last night.

THREE. HOURS. LATER. And I have learned one thing.

That I wanted to plant my Dr. Martens up on the table, knock four heads together, and scream, "OH MY GAWD! Could you people just agree on one thing?!? No?!? Well, then, in that case I elect myself Empress of this here homeowners' association. I hereby disband you miscreants. You will do as I say and there will be NO WHINING!"

And then I wanted to firebomb the rest of my neighborhood.

But, I instead made a few valid, adult points, keeping my Air Waves under the table, promptly hurried home, and sat in the tub for an hour.

The lesson learned from all of this is that if you're a masochist, then by all means, join your HOA board. If not? Run away. Run far, far, far away.

I wish I had.

Nicknames

There I was, picking the twins up from school, first day back after the Christmas holiday and all was well. Until I was asked a simple question, by the twins' teacher, that brought me to my knees.

Ms. Lauren: Heather, do you have any nicknames for Miss-Miss?

Right then. Right there. I had a Bill Cosby moment. You know the moment, from Bill Cosby: Himself*:

Because of my father, I thought my name was Jesus Christ. "JESUS CHRIST!" And my brother Russell thought his name was Dammit. "DAMMIT, WILL YOU STOP ALL THAT NOISE?! AND JESUS CHRIST, SIT DOWN!" So one day, I'm out playin' in the rain, my father says, "DAMMIT, WILL YOU GET IN HERE?!" I said, "Dad! I'm Jesus Christ!"

Yeah, that moment. I paused, thought, raced through the last three years, thinking of the nicknames Miss-Miss could have come up with based on the crap that comes out of my mouth on a daily basis:

Miss-Miss Catherine!**
No, Ma'am!
OhmyGodwhathaveyoudone?!
OhfortheloveofChrist!

And my personal favorite:
Holy. Mary. Mother of God!

Yeah. Can you just imagine it? My little curly-haired angel asking her teacher, Could you please call me "Holy Mary, Mother of God?" I am, after all, perfect!

So, I bucked up and calmly replied, Well, we call her Miss-Miss and her brothers call her Esha. It's a word Bubba made up when he was learning to talk and couldn't say "Sister." You know, twin babble.

And immediately, the light bulb went off above Miss Lauren's head and she began to explain how Miss-Miss demanded that they call her Esha all morning long.

And I climbed into the car, sighing with relief, knowing I had dodged a bullet, and secretly wondering if Ty-man thought his name was actually AREYOUFUCKINGKIDDINGME?!?

My poor, long-suffering family...

*Fast forward to the 6 minute, 50 second mark.
** Yep, that's her middle name alright. Wanna know mine? *Snort!* You wish.

Road Rules

Our cousin J turned 15 yesterday. And yesterday, she took the test for her learner's permit. She was worried about passing, but she's a smart girl and I didn't think she would have any problems. Plus? That whole smart thing? Comes with a load of common sense meaning this is one 15-year-old who won't be a menace on the road.

But, just to be sure, I thought I would present a few extra-helpful rules for her to live by when she is "on the road again." So, without further ado, I give you:

Coal Miner's Granddaughter's Common Sense Rules for Driving Safe!

1. On a normal day, feel free to drive at least 10 miles over the posted speed limit. Otherwise, you may become a highway pancake. When you're PMS-ing? Drive 20 miles over the limit. You're allowed.

2. Stop signs and red lights are optional at 4AM. When no one is around. And you reeeeeaaaaally have to pee.

3. Feel free to make right turns at red lights, unless otherwise noted with signage. Unless you're a rich bimbo, driving a Mercedes SLR McLaren Roadster, talking on your cell phone, and flashing your five carat Tiffany's diamond while simultaneously taking a drag off your Virginia Slim. Then? By all means, the signage does not apply to you. You may turn on red while the rest of us wait.

4. Mail trucks, schmail trucks. Run those f'ers off the road!

5. If a police officer has pulled someone over onto the shoulder, and has the lights blazing on his cruiser, DON'T SLOW DOWN! It's not a "grass is greener" situation. He's not going to abandon his current citation-writing to chase down your "85 in a 65" butt. He's already committed. Maintain your current speed and direction, please.

6. Rubberneck at an accident on the opposite side of the road and I will have to ram you.

So, what say all of you? Have any helpful tips for Cousin J? Leave them in the comments and I'll pass them along to her.

Stream of Consciousness

Why doesn't Little Bear ever wear clothes? His parents are bears and they wear clothes. But he doesn't. Can they not afford clothes for him? I mean, they do live in a tiny house out in the woods. No electricity. No plumbing. Or is it a coming-of-age sort of thing, that he'll wear clothes when he's older? Is that a bear thing? Do I even care?

I think I ate ten dark chocolate-covered dried cherries today. My molars are sticking together.

How come, when Hancock was first released this past summer, no mention was made of Charlize Theron in the movie? Didn't see her in the previews or on the posters. It was all Will Smith! Jason Bateman! And now? That it's on DVD? She's all over the place. I don't get it.

Don't scrapbook and drink. You may write inappropriate comments under your pictures.

Is it possible to overdose on a book? I've been reading the Twilight series and everything on the Web associated with the books and movie. I'm ignoring my family. I now have a t-shirt with Edward/Robert Pattinson on the front. I'm obsessing. Is this unhealthy? Is there a pill for this?

Synchronized gymnastics. Seriously. Just say it 15 times really fast and you'll realize that if you watch it, you are a dork. Dude.

Same Old Lang Syne is the lamest excuse for a Christmas song and I swear by Athena and the 12 colonies that if B98.5 plays that piece of crap next Christmas? I may spit on my Christmas tree. And don't even get me started on The Christmas Shoes.

There are entirely too many hyperlinks in this post.

Am I the only person who is creeped out by that Vince guy who advertises ShamWOW? He's got this weird eye/eyebrow thing and, honestly, if he was selling me gold at a buck an ounce, I would knee him in the nuts and run like Hell.

Is it possible to sign jackasses up for porn-site e-mail subscriptions without getting caught?

Is this the worst post ever?

Thought so.

To Bed, To Bed

I have been abusing my body as of late.

I have many hobbies, many interests. And in the last year or so, I have been staying up late in an effort to get said hobbies and interests taken care of and done so that I may remain a somewhat happy and sane woman. What I seem to forget each night that there is always an early morning to follow.

And every now and again, said late nights coupled with said early mornings get to me. Like right now. So, it is 8:12PM, New Year's Day, and I am putting aside a coherent blog post, scrapbooking, reading, and even cross-stitching, in order to sit in my bed and watch MythBusters until I fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Nighty, night. Sleep tight. And those bed bugs? Nail 'em with some Raid.

Happy 2009!

So, I know. I'm a little late with my first post of 2009. We actually got invited to a party at our neighbor's house and managed not to be the pitiful parents of toddlers who call it a night at 10PM after watching classic Trek all evening. Instead, we were adults, with other adults, drinking alcoholic beverages, gabbing, and welcoming in the New Year!

I won't make any resolutions this year. I never do. I will simply decide to live 2009 with as much awareness of the little things as possible.

For most of the month of December, a little scraggly present sat under our tree. It was a gift from Bubba and Miss-Miss and was made with all seriousness at their Montessori school. Their teacher instructed us not to open said gift until Christmas morning and, in fact, we waited until Christmas afternoon when the kids were finished with their gifts and naps. As we opened the present, flat and wrapped with too much tape, I thought it would the the usual construction paper/marker/crayon creation typically made by pre-schoolers. That I would smile and emphatically hug them, display it on the fridge, and eventually put it in the Christmas scrapbook for future memories. What I found instead was this:

A beyond-gorgeous silhouette of Bubba and Miss-Miss, made by a local company, kept secret by our three-year-old sweeties, and wrapped with loving care. It is now proudly displayed on my family room wall.

And I cried sweet tears of joy over the simplest of gifts. It was the best gift I received this holiday.

So, what I hope for all of you in this new year is many tears of joy, smiles, laughs, giggles, and snorts.

I'm sure that's something we could all use.